


the smell of cinders and rain

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Coward is a man of words, of politics, a blue blood. He is a man forever striving for the future, forever searching, forever waiting, waiting for a man to rise from the ashes and lead him to a glorious end.</i> Wherein Coward's desire to make the perfect man doesn't quite go according to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the smell of cinders and rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unsettled](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/gifts).



He sighs, and it swells within his chest like the belly of the deceased before him; black and purple and rank with the sickly sweet smell of decay. The corpse, once a man and now a shell, is split open from neck to groin, organs glistening as Coward rests his gloved hands upon the sternum and _pulls_ , hears the bone snap and grimaces as dead blood paints his face in defiance.

This is not his craft.

Coward is a man of words, of politics, a blue blood. He is a man forever striving for the future, forever searching, forever waiting, waiting for a man to rise from the ashes and lead him to a glorious end. An end where the city of London burns and the sky is cloaked in ash, in black, in absolute despair and only then, when the dust has long since settled, will they build anew.

He has been waiting a long time.

Rochester; strong and wilful, noble. He spoke his mind and his colleagues listened, enraptured. Every word that passed his lips made Coward tremble, made him _yearn_ , until the very sight of those aquiline features was enough for his heart to skip a beat as blood rushed south, to the inevitable. Rochester was a man that simply demanded acquiescence, every man and every woman bowing to his whim with nary a thought.

And yet, he was not quite _right_.

Darling; unassuming. Short in stature and quiet in nature there was a certain... darkness beneath the surface that drew Coward like a moth to the flame. Politics, unfortunately, were not Darling’s game, but despite that he shone like the moon in a star-less sky. Blond, blue-eyed and insatiable, unlike Rochester (who he had admired from a distance) Coward was able to integrate himself into the close-knit group which orbited him. There, he had easily manipulated his way to the very top, into Darling’s very bed. There, he had whispered black little secrets into listening ears.

Insatiable wasn’t quite the word for it.

They’d fucked like animals nightly; bit and shed blood until Darling had gasped for breath beneath the onslaught of Coward’s hands. He had bruised so prettily, his pupils blown before the climax, and Coward had known such _power_. Such pure, unadulterated power at his fingertips as Darling, on the final eve of their coupling, struggled and choked as his lungs filled up with blood.

It was a beautiful image; his Darling, pale and painted red in the candlelight, eyes glassy, staring.

Nevertheless, Darling wasn’t the correct fit. If he had been Coward would have never felt so compelled to murder him and satisfy his own wretched cravings.

The search continued.

Worthington; useless. A parody of a man, too up himself to see what was right in front of him. Blakely; too fragile. Richards; much too pompous. So many men, so many, and not a single one would last more than a day at his hands. They would tremble and fall, before even participating in his terrible plan.

It was that day that Coward came to the ultimate conclusion.

Why search for such a man... when he can create one for his own?

-

Darling has such lovely hands; long and slender, like an artist. Oh, he was an indulgent brat, of course, but in life his skill with a paint brush was legendary and Coward had posed many times for him, sprawled out on the bed, debauched with skin like broken porcelain.

In death they shall serve a greater purpose.

The hacksaw feels strange in his hands. Heavy. It slides through skin as easy as can be, but when he reaches bone... ah. Now this is much more difficult. Gripping Darling’s forearm tightly he exerts force, back and forth, slow and gradual, but it is by no means neat. The cut is rough, jagged and imperfect, but it serves his purpose.

Acquiring what he desires was easy enough... there are men who will do anything for money, even digging up a rancid corpse. He had placed the body on ice, to preserve it, had let it thaw just enough for the stiffness to abate lest he snap those lovely fingers but the smell is enough to peel paint from wood. Darling had begun to rot, too soon, too quick, and Coward had almost despaired.

His creation _must_ have lovely hands.

But, luck is on his side. Darling isn’t perfect, by any means, but it’s enough to work with until he can breathe life into his creation.

The body is harder to come by. It takes weeks for Coward to find a suitable cadaver (too small, too trim, too muscular. Too dark, too pale, too scarred) but when he does... oh, it’s worth the wait. The shoulders are exquisite; broad and strong. The hips are trim and the legs athletic. Organs, new and fresh, replace those which have become bloated and putrid, and when he sews on Darling’s lovely hands his perfect creation is almost complete.

Alas, there is but one body part which eludes him.

A head.

A head that will house a brain brimming with knowledge and dark desire and a face... a face that Coward will look upon with pride.

A head, and every single one that lands in his lap is _wrong_.

A head.

With his decapitated masterpiece slumbering in the cellar and trembling with frustration and disappointment, Coward retires to bed.

He retires, and dreams.

All is dark, all is still. He sits upon a stone dais, nude, legs swinging as a child is wont to do and there is something in the air that presses against his lips, something sinister wanting to spill hot and slick down his throat. He resists. He has to, but it presses closer, a bodily caress as bony fingers grip his jaw and force their way into his mouth.

Coward tastes blood, tastes bitter. Tastes sweet.

It fills him up from the inside out, writhes in his gut, takes root until it streams out of every orifice. He can’t speak, can’t _breathe_. Coward chokes, and for a long moment he thinks that perhaps, just perhaps, he might die.

Those fingers on his lips retreat, dance across the contours of his face and there, in the silence, is the impression of a smile.

“Daniel,” it says, and its voice is deep and saccharine, “ _Daniel_. You shall be rewarded for your... _service_ , misguided though it is.” Its lips are frigid as it kisses his gaping mouth, practically purring in undisguised desire. “I will give you a gift, my love, a most _useful_ gift.”

Its tongue is a snake. It hisses, eyes the only light in the dark; glowing amber and cruelty. It slides down his throat, amidst the torrent of vile fluid, and curls up in his belly, content.

He wakes up with a scream, sweat beading on his brow. His stomach is unsettled, clenching violently as phantom pain causes him to gasp, breathless.

When he enters the cellar seconds later, his creation is no longer devoid of a head. Indeed, there it is, stitched expertly to the neck by an apparently steady hand.

It’s beautiful. _He_ is beautiful.

The features are prominent... distinct, though not unpleasantly so. Though the forehead is a tad wide it complements the hawk-like nose and the jaw line is, for lack of a better word, stunning. His chest rises and falls with every breath, slow and steady. Coward’s creation sleeps, deep and undisturbed, but undoubtedly _alive_.

For a long time he merely stands there and stares, trembles; awestruck.

-

Like a child, Coward teaches him, names him Henry. Henry must learn to walk, to talk, to read. He must learn how to eat in a civilised manner, to wash and look after himself. It’s as easy as breathing for Henry, as if it is simply a matter of remembering something he has long since forgotten.

In the dead of night, when the snow is white and soft against the window he sleeps in Coward’s bed.

It would be a lie to say that he isn’t tempted.

A terrible lie.

-

Of course, Henry is handsome. If it were not for the dreadful thick, black stitches that hold him together he would be most comely indeed. And yet... it is superficial, and nothing more. There is more to Henry than his appearance, more even than his apparent ability to absorb knowledge like a sponge. Beneath the surface there lies a hidden fount, a _secret_ , one only glimpsed when Coward looks deep into his eyes.

(The world shrinks in those moments, twists and writhes and compacts until it is just the two of them and no-one else, lost and unwilling to be found.)

Perfect in his imperfection Henry rests, loose and pliable upon Coward’s bed, his starched white shirt unbuttoned, a knife resting in the palm of his hand. Dragging the flat of it over his bruised ribcage he hums, jaunty and out of tune, but he seems almost... apathetic. The wicked edge pierces dead flesh and he doesn’t even flinch, watching as thick, dark blood seeps sluggishly from the open wound.

“Tell me of your plan,” he says, and pushes his thumb into the muscle of his chest. His voice is terrifying fire and soothing balm, and he looks at Coward as a child would look at an insect whilst plucking its wings; with mild interest in its plight before, inevitably, causing its demise.

Coward, looking up from _Faust_ , tells him. Tells him everything.

Henry smiles, sheds apathy like an old coat. Delighted he pulls Coward to his chest and kisses him, hard and fierce and cruel. His lips bleed. Their blood co-mingles.

Yes, there is more to his creation than meets the eye.

-

When Coward introduces Henry to his associates, it doesn’t quite go according to plan.

Henry takes to Rotheram about as well as a cat takes to a mouse, playfully batting at its prey before putting it out of its misery. And that is what he does, in essence, waits until the sun has set and guts him open until slick intestines slip out onto the floor. Tying them in a neat little bow Henry brings it to Coward; a depraved, bloody gift strewn across the carpet.

Coward scrubs the stain out himself.

The maid is not to be trusted; would have no qualms about spreading such a delicious piece of gossip.

-

Days pass and the nights become desolate. In their bed Henry’s body sucks in heat and Coward is forever cold, forever shivering, his back pressed to Henry’s chest to feel the faint _bathump_ of his heartbeat.

Henry grows stronger, grows distant.

Coward grows concerned.

Rotheram hadn’t been the only wretched soul to die by those lovely hands, indeed, had only been the first. Newspapers loudly proclaim a sinister presence moving among the masses, slitting the throats of young woman and gutting men, decorating old London town in crimson gore. The public are at once thrilled and terrified, whispering on street corners and wondering when the next murder will occur.

Fear is rife and Henry _basks_ in it; a veritable demon.

-

Her body is ruined, torso split open to reveal the delicate jigsaw of organs within. Henry touches her with reverence and barely-concealed lust, his wet fingers tracing the vulnerable swell of her womb, no bigger than his fist.

Coward retches, brings up only bile.

This... this isn’t part of the plan. It’s coming apart right in front of him, unravelling at the seams, and he can do nothing, nothing at all, to stop it.

-

“When I touch you, Daniel, what is it that enters your thoughts? Do you imagine sodomy at the hands of a tender lover or do you yearn for darkness?” Henry’s breath is putrid on his face, hot with the scent of old death but his hands, his slender artist hands, stroke down the length of Coward’s body. Bliss pools in his gut. His arousal aches, weeping profusely but Henry is a tease, trailing his lips up the arc of Cowards throat and biting down, hard and deep.

Blood trickles down his chest and the pain is a burst of pleasure behind his eyes.

Henry kisses him, his mouth red.

“Your heart is as black as my own, my love,” and (for a moment the saccharine words of Henry and that terrifying demon become one, become _whole_ ) he gasps, delirious, Henry’s arousal slick and heavy inside of him. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Henry fucks into him and the world shrinks down until there is this and only this; Henry’s hands around his throat and Henry’s voice in his ears, murmuring low and deep and soothing.

He becomes loose and languid, pliable. His cheek rests against the pillow as he struggles to suck air into lungs that refuse to cooperate and Henry moans, tightens his fingers.

His heart stops beating.

He dies, and there is no-one to mourn him.

-

If one is to go to England, they are to avoid London at all costs. The ruins are treacherous, they say, abandoned homes and factories slumbering, derelict. It’s dangerous, too dangerous for the likes of a family man such as Doctor Watson, and no bride will acquiesce to the notion of passing through on their honeymoon, whether it shortens the journey or not.

One chill day, in December, the people of London vanished without a trace.

It is most mysterious, but then, isn’t that just the way of the world?


End file.
